a historical day for america...just another day for grace

Dear Grace,

What a big week in American history! Barack Obama was elected President of the United States. To you, this may not seem like a very big deal…just another new president. And, in a way, I am very glad that you see it that way. That means that to you, it’s completely normal and natural for a Black man to be president. It means that you don’t see skin color as something that can help or hinder one’s position in life. It means that to you, we are all the same. I pray that this is always the way that the world will appear to you. Even more importantly, I hope that this is becoming true in our country so that you may live in a world without racism, prejudice, hate and intolerance. But don’t be naïve, Gracie. There will always be people who are not as open-minded and accepting as you are. There will always be people who judge others on superficial characteristics such as their skin color, gender, sexuality, even weight or height. I hope that you will be a woman—a girl, even—who stands up and demands respect for both yourself and others. Don’t accept ignorance from people. If Barack Obama accepted the fact that some people view him negatively because of his skin color, he could never have become president.



While I want you to change the world for the better, I also want you to accept yourself for who you are. I was horrified this morning as I watched the Today Show while I was waiting for you to wake up. There was a segment about Human Growth Hormone, an injection that parents are giving to their children who are “too short.” So that their kids won’t get picked on in school for being short, some parents give their children injections every day so that they will grow taller. I couldn’t help but think that these parents could save themselves a lot of money and their kids a lot of physical discomfort if instead of giving them growth shots they teach their kids that they are children of God, perfect the way that they are, and that they should be proud of who they are instead of trying to change the way that God made them! (Trust me, being short isn’t so bad!).

Grace, it is true, sometimes we need to work to change ourselves. Accepting yourself for who you are doesn’t mean never making any efforts toward change for the better. However, you also need to be happy with who you are, know that we love you because you’re you, and most importantly: Love Yourself! You are a beautiful, happy, sweet child and it doesn’t matter if you’re short or tall, thick or thin, purple or green. All that matters is that you live your life in a way that makes you happy and that you’re kind enough to think about the happiness of others as well!

Gracie my love, you are the center of Mama’s world. When you’re sleeping, I can’t wait for you to wake up. When I’m out without you, I can’t wait to come home and give you kisses. You are the most precious treasure in my life. For the most part your life will be full of joy and happy adventures. Unfortunately, sometimes life will be hard, painful, and confusing. That’s just the way it is. But you will get through it with God’s Grace, the love of your family and friends and your own inner strength. No matter what, through the good and through the bad, Mommy loves you more than anything in the world. You are my Gracie Girl.

I love you,
Mama

206 patrick place...a special place in our hearts

We are preparing to embark on yet another new chapter in our lives: moving into a new home--a really new home. One that we built together. Part of me can't wait to move in, to have more space, and for Grace to have a real bedroom (not an office with a Pack 'n Play in it!) As with all big life transitions though, every new begninning means saying goodbye to some other part of our lives. We're moving out of our apartment. Wait, we're moving out of our apartment. The first place we ever lived in together, the place where we planned our wedding, our future, the place where we brought our first child home.

There was a huge red wine stain on the carpet that I removed today (at the risk of not getting our security deposit back!), and as I sprayed and scrubbed I thought about some of our best times. Where the stain was was in the same spot on the floor that Jeff and I slept on our first night in this apartment, before our bed was moved in. The carpets were slightly damp from having just been shampooed. That night I stared above me, pleased that our livingroom had vaulted cielings. Vaulted cielings. I had arrived. Wow--what does it mean that our new bedroom has a vaulted cieling!? Even Grace's room has one. She's ahead of the game.

I thought about other spills--a goldfish cracker I once threw at Jeff's head that lived under the couch for months, Cheerios that can never seem to stay in my bowl as I have breakfast in front of the TV, chocolate cake from birthday parties, cracker crumbs from Jeff's nighttime snacks, popcorn he can never seem to get into his mouth on the first try...then later, formula drips from a bottle that has tipped over, spit-up from a laughing baby.

We've made many marks on this apartment. Nail holes where our wedding picture once hung, dents in the carpet from Gracie's swing. Not all the marks are so tangible though. Some of the marks are in my mind as wonderful memories. I remember where we all sat playing Cranium at our Halloween Dinner Party where Bryan brought a cake he baked (and decorated!) himself. I remember our Wii parties where we bowled until the wee hours of the night. I remember laying on a heating pad to relieve my pregnancy backaches and getting my feet massaged at the same time. I remember drinking a very expensive bottle of Caymus...with pizza and chicken wings! I remember carving pumpkins on the kitchen floor. The list goes on...and on.

Gracie is going to love her new home where she will have room to run around and go hiking in the woods, swim in the pond (well, maybe!), and play basketball with her daddy. But this is where she began...this is where our family began. And I can't wait to drive past, point to the apartment complex across from the hospital and say, "That's where we lived when you were born!"

there are no bad apples

In our refrigerator is a drawer that only ever houses a bag of apples, usually McIntosh, sometimes Cortland, but always grown in New York. Every evening when Jeff packs his lunch, he reaches into the bag inside the drawer and pulls out an apple to put into his lunch bag. If he happens to pull an apple from the bag with even the slightest bruise, he places it in the drawer outside of the bag and reaches for another apple. Only the best apples make Jeff's lunch while the rejects sit idly, waiting for someone to cut off their bad spots and enjoy them despite their flaws.

This morning I decided I would have an apple for breakfast. When I opened the drawer in the refrigerator this is what I saw: A drawer full of bruised apples amidst a clear plastic bag containing only a few apples--some unmarred by bruises or softspots, others maybe flawed yet undetected by Jeff's critical eye. My point is that there were far more imperfect stragglers than there were pristine red orbs suitable for Jeff's lunch. In a way, I felt sorry for the lonely bruised apples. In a way, I identified with them.

We strive for perfection. We all want the best, to do well, to be successful, to create perfect masterpieces, but I wonder--at what cost? Do we make others into bruised apples cast aside as we endeavor toward perfection?

Lately, I have been feeling like a bad apple.

there's just something about a smiling baby...

My face hurts.

It hurts from smiling.

The last time my face felt this way was on my wedding day when the proliferation of photo snapping had smiles pasted on our faces all day.


Gracie (since her baptism--a coincidince?) has been grining up a storm. Last night she sat facing Jeff while he was watching How I Met Your Mother just smiling at him. When Grace smiles her mouth opens wide, slightly upturned, flashing her gums, and her eyes smile too. The saucers get only slightly smaller and her eyebrows raise slightly higher. Every once in a while she would let out what sounded like, "Hiii!" Was she saying hi? Trying to get Daddy's attention? Making attempts at a laugh? Only Gracie knows.

We look at her, and we smile, too. Her smiles make us laugh. Our laughs keep her smiling. It's a cycle that makes our lives brighter.

part of god's master plan...

...is to make babies cute. If they weren't, would we really keep having them?? Seriously. Think about it.

amazing grace.

I woke up this morning replaying events in my mind again. This time it wasn't the birth of Grace, in fact, it can be argued that it was the shattering of it. September 11th 2001 stands out in my mind as one of the most poignant days I've ever lived. Since classes were cancelled at UB, Jenn and I decided to meet up at TGI Fridays, but it wasn't our typical lunch or happy hour meeting. We spent the entire day there--drinking, eating lunch, drinking, eating dinner, and drinking. What I remember best was that the bar was filled with people, and you would have thought it was a banquet, that we all knew each other, that we were friends, or even family. We all talked to each other with a familiarity that was born of what we shared--a mutual sense of shock, of sorrow, and of fear. The events of 9/11 were brutal, but somehow its spirit brought a sense of neighborly love and respect among friends and among strangers.

I wondered this morning as I lay in bed: How will I explain to Grace what happened that day? Will it be for her a story that brings fear of strangers, that there are nameless faceless people in this world who have set their sights on hurting her? Or will it be as mythical to her as the Blizzard of '77 was for me?

I believe that if Grace is going to be fearful of anything in life, that fear should come as a result of her own experiences and not cautionary tales from her mother's. At the same time, it's also my job to shed light on reality for her, to speak with candor and honesty about my own experiences so that she is not shell-shocked by truth.

Part of the reality of 9/11 for me is that as Americans, we do have the ability to walk together, to unite with a common purpose, to share neighborly love...something that today, given the divisiveness of American politics, we have completely lost sight of. I will explain to Grace the great tragedy that occurred that day, but I will also highlight the Amazing Grace bestowed on our country in our ability--if even for a moment--to connect with one another

During Grace's "cranky time" each night, I sing the song to her. Unfortunately, I only know two verses by heart. Without fail, it calms her into a peaceful state that I hope she'll carry with her into adulthood. In the spirit of me learning the song so that I can sing more than two verses tonight and in remembrance of that horrific yet inspiring day seven years ago:

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me.
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

When we've been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we've first begun.

In remembrance...

backtracking...

I often wonder what's more important in our lives: the actual moments that we live and experience or the memories that last once the moment is over?

Grace turned one-month old on September 3rd; time has flown and somehow has moved at a snail's pace at the same time. Her hair is coming in thicker, her face is filling out, newborn size onesies are now too small; she's changing more and more each day. One thing that has not changed, however, is the indellible mark her birth has left on me. And I mean her actual birth. Each night as I lie down to sleep I try to avoid thinking about tasks that need to be completed (like a dissertation, maybe?), and so I replay in my mind the events surrounding Grace's birth in much the same way I replayed over and over my and Jeff's first kiss four years ago. Is it reviewing it in my mind for weeks that has helped me to remember it? It was snowing outside. I see a snapshot in my mind of us sitting on his couch after finishing a game of Scrabble, me in an ivory fleece, jeans and yellow sneakers and him in a navy blue Eddie Bauer sweatshirt. He held my hand and I commented sarcastically, "I suppose you're going to try to kiss me next." The rest is history...

Fast forward four years. It occurred to me last night that I should write down the story of Grace's entry into the world both so that I'll have it to share with her one day, but also for me. For as painful as the experience was, I bask in its retelling, each one a memorial of a completed piece of life...one I want never to forget.

I woke up at 6:00 am on Saturday, August 2nd--contracting. Not painful contractions--just a tightening of my lower back coming every 10, then 7, then 5 minutes to let me know that my life was about to change forever. It was the day of Bryan and Jill's wedding, and Jeff was the Best Man. As he ran around getting ready to leave, he simultaneously timed my contractions on a stopwatch. I reassured him that they weren't that bad, that it was okay to head out for the wedding, I'd see him at the church. The story would be much more interesting if I said I went into full-blown labor the moment he walked out the door, but no. I made it to the wedding, contracting throughout the ceremony and then reception. My mother-in-law and the mother of the groom convinced me before dinner to call my doctor since we were an hour and a half away from the hospital. I did, and he told me to 'stay for a while, have fun, but try to get closer to Rochester soon.' After Jeff's speech and a eating a meager dinner (out of fear I would throw up during labor), Jeff and I headed out on our way to the hospital.

We arrived in triage at the birthing center, they "checked me" and I was 3 cm dilated. They told me to "walk around for awhile" and they'd check me again in an hour or so. After said hour, I was dilated to 3.5, but the resident on duty decided it would be best for me to take a percoset and head home to get some sleep. For the record, I knew that was a dumb idea, but I did what I was told. We made the one-hour drive home, I showered, got into bed...and then my water broke. We made the one-hour trip back to the hospital and in that brief time, my contractions went from tolerable to "holy cow, I don't know if I can handle this" painful. Our car ride began with chatting, to breathing, to moaning through contractions.

We got back to triage at around 3 am. I told them my water broke and their little litmus test was inconclusive as to whether or not it really had. It had. I knew it had. So when they told me they'd have to use the speculum to do an exam, I was anything but compliant. I made up my mind--there would be no speculum going anywhere near me. They "checked me" again and I was dilated to 5 cm, begging for drugs--"any drugs! Just something to make the pain go away!" After what seemed like an eternity (a nurse who didn't believe me when I said on a scale of 1-10 the pain was a 12, another nurse who admired my "beautiful veins" before she inserted my IV, and sitting in a wheelchair leaking all over the hallway forever), they brought me into a new room with a nurse named Joy and Dr. Sciabetta. The pain suddenly turned to an intense need to go #2...at least that's what I thought I had to do. In actuality, I was nearly fully dilated and it was time to start pushing! "Wait! Does this mean I can't have the drugs!?" I cried. The doctor decided I could have a saddle block because it would take away the pain for about 2 hours (instead of the epidural which is meant for more long-term pain relief). I love Dr. Sciabetta for this. I have never so looked forward to a needle in my life! Once it was in, I was completely numb, happy, and on my back ready to push.

It was a very intimate scene. No stirrups, masks or gowns. Just Jeff holding one leg, Joy holding the other, Dr. S. sitting at the end of the bed chatting and joking with us (in between pushes, of course). After about 30 minutes of contractions and a handful of pushes, Dr. S. warned me, "Now, if you don't get her out by the next contraction, the pain medication is going to wear off and you're going to feel everything." I knew he was kidding, but his joke signaled to me that it was time to get the show on the road and with the next push out came little Grace's head. I laughed and cried, amazed at both the work I had done in getting her out and the work Jeff and I had done together in creating such a masterpiece. For the first time ever, I saw tears in my husband's eyes. And our world was forever changed.

Grace entered the world in silence, her eyes wide open as she took in whatever she could make of her environment. Part of me was concerned that she wasn't tense and crying like all of the babies I had seen born on TV. But there was another part of me that was proud of the grace with which she made her entrance. Quiet and aware, cautious and curious, observant. I only hope that this is the way she will live her life as well--eyes open, looking ahead, quiet enough to attend to the world around her in thoughtful and meaningful ways.

Grace is one month old and I can't stop thinking about those several hours on August 2nd and 3rd that ushered her into this world. I have learned the meaning of the phrase "labor of love" and I am forced to admit that everyone was right--it was SO worth it.

As has become our morning ritual, when Grace woke up at 6:00 this morning to eat, I fed her and then brought her into bed with me, holding her next to me as she slept with my cheek pressed against her sweet-smelling little head. Every morning this is a moment I want to hold onto--put it in my pocket and save it for later for when she's too big or too cool to snuggle with her mama..

The experiences that I live are important, but they are fleeting--my and Jeff's first kiss, the birth of Grace, our morning snuggle-time. However, it is in these moments that I formulate the memories that I will hold and cherish forever.

Here's to never forgetting...

2 milestones: 3 weeks for grace and 40 years for mom & dad

3 weeks ago today the world was graced with Grace's presence and 40 years ago today made it all possible. Well, in theory. They really didn't have to get married in order for Grace to be possible. But they did. Because that's the right way to do things. (Got it, Gracie?) I am actually really glad my parents got married. Here are a few reasons why:

I am glad my parents got married because...

...it was my mom's wedding-day hairstyle that inspired the do for my senior prom. Oh wait, maybe that was her prom-day hairstyle? It doesn't matter. She shared both days with my dad.

...the photographer that shot my and Jeff's wedding was the same one that captured my parents' wedding day 38 years earlier. That fact made it a little more okay that he was a kook.

...they have an anniversary each year that alerts the world to my upcoming birthday three days later.

...it would be weird if my parents were just "dating." However, since they bought their boat (which I affectionately refer to as "The Titanic") dating seems to be something they do much more of. (So what if their dates consist of a bottle of Yellow Tail and clams in the boat's toaster oven? These provisions build their strength in the event that they need to ward off a barge that may jump into their path on a summer evening cruise).

...in addition to the previous point, 2 words--TEAM WORK!

...at least my mom has a platform from which to dole her unsolicited advice on marriage.

...and finally, 40 years is a heck of a long time to be married, and they inspire me and Jeff with hope that our marriage will be as long and as fruitful!

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. We love you!!

in the name of all things tentative.

I've always been a planner, a list-maker, a slightly OCD woman incapable of "winging it." Living in the "now" has never been my strong suit. I love the story my mom tells about me when I was around five years old. We were driving in the car one day when I suddenly began to cry (As a mom to a three-week-old, I'm sure this probably happened on more than one occasion). When my mom asked me why I was crying, I sobbed, "Someday I'm going to have to drive a car, but I don't know how!" That was me. Five years old, consumed with worry about how I would handle the challenges of the road eleven years later. (I ended up doing fine, by the way. I successfully learned to drive at sixteen, and other than the intermittent speeding tickets and some tailgating issues that drive Jeff nuts, I'm able to get us from point A to point B with very little anxiety or difficulty).

The thing about my planning (read: incessant worrying) is that it is only on very few occasions that things work out the way that I intend. This paradox has become especially apparent in the past three weeks during my initiation into motherhood. I had many plans that I fully intended to follow to a T.

First of all, childbirth was going to be "natural." I practiced by breathing at every stoplight as my birthing class instructor suggested and talked with Jeff about what his role as "coach" would entail. As it turns out, "coach" is a contrived role that gives dads a purpose, highly overrated, and completely unnecessary. When it came down to it, I didn't want a coach at all. Sure, I wanted Grace's dad there to witness the miracle of her birth (which it was since I "quit" childbirth about five times during my three-hours in hell), but I didn't want him talking to me, touching me, or motivating (read: inciting) me with his words of encouragement. I wanted drugs. Lots of drugs. My fear of needles dissipated in a longing for numbness and I received my saddle block just in time to push Grace out and appreciate my "coach" for at least 30 minutes of the birthing process. So much for a "natural" childbirth. I remember that anesthesiologist in my nightly prayers.

Second, I was bound and determined to breastfeed--again, in the name of all things "natural." Breastfeeding is known to be "the best thing" for babies, convenient, cheap, and one of the best ways to get your pre-pregnancy body back. Oh, and did I mention that breastfeeding means my baby wanted to eat every hour of the day and night? That there is pain and even blood involved? That I would dread feeding time, cry each time Grace began rooting for my boob, and that said boobs would grow to astronomical proportions? This was all conveniently omitted from the beauty of breastfeeding text I'd been indoctrinated by. Another plan out the window. The money that we'll earn from my selling my nursing bras and breast pump on eBay will get us about a month's worth of Similac Advance. Grace and I say a special prayer for Mr. Similac before bed each night.

And finally, I would never, under any circumstances, give Grace a pacifier. In the words of my brother, "It's like giving a hungry child an empty spoon to suck on." So we'd find other ways to "pacify" our baby. I would never want to be the parent of one of those four-year-olds walking around with their "binky" in their mouths, pulling it out to ask for a cookie, and shoving it back in. I am convinced that it can hinder speech development (my own non-scientifically based hunch) and that it paves the way for using toothpicks in public, chomping obnoxiously on gum, and other unsavory habits that I've always frowned upon. So I'd never give Grace a pacifier. Until the night Jeff was getting her bottle ready at 2:00 am and she would not stop screaming (Singing over and over, "Your bottle's almost ready!" evades her at this point as a soothing mechanism). And that night when she was burped, fed, changed, rocked, sung to, and she still contiunued to cry. It's amazing what a pacifier can do. So I'll never give Grace a pacifier...unless I'm at my wits end. Then we say a special prayer for Mr. Binky.

So, in a nutshell, one of the things I've learned during the past three weeks is that plans are always tentative and worrying about the inevitable--whether it be driving a car, a child's impeding birth, feeding time, or what to do the next time she cries--is useless. With Grace, the only time that exists is right now.

And that's a good thing.

I'd hate to miss a second while I perseverate on what's to come.

growing up.

I've been having contractions for nearly 24 hours now, and all the signs of an impending labor and childbirth are present. It's an exciting time, indeed, as my fear of childbirth slowly morphs into an incredible urge to get this show on the road. What were the chances that I would begin labor (if this is indeed labor--I'm pretty sure it is the beginning) on the day of Jeff's best friend's wedding? When Bryan asked Jeff to be his best man I believe my exact words were, "Don't worry--what are the chances that I'll go into labor on that particular day?" Lo and behold...

Jeff just left for pre-wedding preparations. Tuxedo Junction forgot to include his tux pants so that caused some unneeded commotion this morning. He felt so guilty leaving. All morning he kept his stopwatch in his hand (he even brought it with him when he went into the bathroom to shower) so that he could fulfill his primary duty as "coach." Before he left, we sat snuggling on the couch watching CNN. We laughed about China's efforts to "go green" during the Olympics. (Who knew China was so ecologically atuned?!)

At that moment it occurred to me that it could possibly be the last moment Jeff and I would enjoy as a family of two. While I am looking forward to celebrating the birth of our little Grace, I also feel a sense of mourning for the loss of our solitude; our weekend mornings of sleeping in, watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and sharing a breakfast of waffles and sausage in front of the TV; our midday naps and long evening walks to Yummies. I do realize we will still be able to do these things, but they'll evolve around Gracie's feeding and sleep schedules instead of our own selfish whims.

I once decalared ever-so-pedantically to my sister that a sign of adulthood is one's ability (and willingness) to consider how our life's decisions impact others in addition to ourselves. It's something that's definitely easier preached than practiced. Today Jeff and I live for our marriage and our friendships (with each other and with others) as we celebrate Bryan and Jill's marriage hoping against hope that Grace's arrival will delay even just long enough to get us through the ceremony.

Tomorrow, we will likely be living for our family.

grace.

Edwidge Danticat writes in her latest memoir Brother I'm Dying that telling her story is an opportunity to look forward and back at the same time. Likewise, being pregnant has offered me an interesting opportunity to reflect. I'm not sure if it's the pregnancy hormones, some sort of feminine instinct, realizing my own mortality in the fear of labor and delivery, or the realization that I'm staring my future in the face each time I glance at the blurry ultrasound picture of my daughter framed on a small table in my living room. It's probably a little of everything.

The last week or so has been rough. I've been what they call "nesting," so everything in my life has been getting cleaned, organized, sorted, put together, and thrown out in preparation for the little one's arrival. I'm pleased that all I have left to do is have the sofa shampooed, wash the kitchen floor (Jeff says he'll take care of that) and cart some boxes of old clothes and general crap to the VOA. But the nesting process is another blog in and of itself. In the midst of my cleaning sprees, I frequently find myself in tears. I think most of it comes from sheer terror. I'm not particularly fond of hospitals, and I am afraid of needles, catheters, pain in general...I'm scared that my body won't look the same after I give birth as it did before I got pregnant, that my relationship with Jeff will change, that I will become irrelevant to my non-mother friends, that my job will suffer, my dissertation won't get done, the house we're building will be too small... In a nutshell, I am consumed by fear.

But perhaps the most frightening thing about all of this is the feeling that I am all alone. Oh, don't get me wrong. I know Jeff will be a fabulous labor coach and a terrific dad; I also know my parents, in-laws and friends are only a phone call away and will swoop in at a moment's notice to lend a helping hand. But when it comes to being a mom, to getting her into this world, even to getting her to the point where she's ready and healthy enough to come out...that's all up to me. No one can help me with this part.

The other day was particularly trying. My mom called to see how I was doing while Jeff was away at a bachelor party all day. I was, of course, cleaning. She asked me, "Aren't you excited that the house is coming along so quickly?" With that, I errupted into tears. "No! I'm not excited!" and at the sound of my first few sobs my mom was off the phone, closing her shop, and in the car to Warsaw like a bat out of hell. She showed up at my door with one arm extended to hug me, a package of Snickers bars and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in the other arm. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel completely alone in this journey toward parenthood. In that wonderful, comforting mommy-hug, the realization set in that she's done this too. She's been there. We had a fabulous dinner at my favorite restaurant that evening and spent a lot of time talking about childhood and motherhood--both hers and mine. We spent most of our time talking about my Nonnie.

Nonnie, though she didn't know it, was a feminist in the truest sense of the word. She actually taught me all about feminism--not by standing on a soapbox and preaching to me about women's rights, but by the silent whisper of girl power in her every action. She divorced her husband in the 1950s, a time when that was just not something women did, but she did it for her children. He was a raging alcoholic, abusive to her and her two children who were 8 and 4 when she finally got up the nerve to leave. Nonnie was young when she divorced--probably only 30 or so--and went to work in her sister's restaurant as a waitress for $1 an hour. Doesn't sound like you could maintain a family on such a salary, does it? And she couldn't. But with no child support to be had from her deadbeat ex and too much pride to accept what she called "handouts" of any kind, she made due, even if it meant that all they had in their refrigerator were potatoes. At 8 years old, my mom became her brother's caretaker while Nonnie worked to put food on the table and shoes on their feet. One of the things I asked my mom the other day was why Nonnie never remarried. She was young enough, beautiful, and her life could have been a lot easier with another income around to help her take care of her kids and home. She made a conscious choice not to remarry, my mom told me: "She would never, ever have another man lord over her again for as long as she lived." And that she didn't. She would never iron a man's shirt again after she left her husband, but at the same time, she would never cease to care for her children and then her grandchildren. With hands crippled from rheumatoid arthritis she continued to work, cook, take care of her home, knit sweaters and slippers, crochet tableclothes and afghans, all until she died...all with beauty and Grace...all with her makeup on, hair in place, clothes impeccable.

I see the power my grandmother harnassed in my mom all the time, who, at 55 (when many are preparing to retire) finally stopped altering clothes in the basement and fulfilled her dream of opening a dress shop of her own. My mom, a card-carrying, Limbaugh-listening conservative--decries the tenets of feminism. Little does she realize, however, that she too typifies the feminism I learned to embrace through my liberal education and my adventures therein. She too typifies the beauty, Grace, and sheer power that my Nonnie instilled in us as she locks the doors of her shop two hours before closing time to rescue her daughter in need of her love and insight.

When the baby arrives (any day now!) her name will be Grace Concetta. Concetta was Nonnie's name. Grace was Nonnie's mother's middle name, my middle name, my mom's confirmation name, but most importantly, Grace is what I learned from these powerful women in my life. Grace is a symbol that I am not alone, that those who went before me continue to walk with me. It is the "grace of a woman and not the grief of a child" that I take with me as I enter into the tumultuous stages of labor with my "head up and my eyes ahead" to quote a poem by Veronica Shofstall. Grace is my past in the women who've made me who I am and Grace is my future...my child.